


Love and Bullets

by kappamaki33



Series: Companion Pieces [4]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-10
Updated: 2010-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kappamaki33/pseuds/kappamaki33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two times Galen says goodbye to Boomer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the "Farewell Symphony" 'verse. This is really more a cycle of fics than a series. Each one stands on its own as a story, and they can be read in any order. However, the storytelling structure is the same in each, so they do share some commonalities.
> 
> The title "Companion Pieces" actually has a double meaning. Each fic in the cycle is actually two stories with a common theme. The cycle as a whole itself is also a companion piece to "Farewell Symphony," the remix I wrote of [info]trovia's excellent "Recapitulation." These are stories that I cut from "'Farewell' Symphony" when I decided to streamline the structure, but I liked them a lot, so I figured they deserved to be posted as freestanding stories themselves. So, these stories are essentially a part of the same 'verse as "Farewell Symphony," though both stand alone in and of themselves.

It wasn’t until Tyrol found himself in the gym instead of _Cloud Nine_’s bar that he realized just how thoroughly Sharon had frakked him up.  Tyrol _never_ went to the gym.  When your job involved crawling around on your elbows under Raptors and wedging yourself up in the comm systems of Vipers all day long, you couldn’t afford to have sore muscles from lifting weights, or at least that’s what Tyrol usually told himself.  In fact, Tyrol realized, the real reason he didn’t go was because he really didn’t need the gym that often.  Not that he thought he was some kind of natural Adonis—far from it—but the gym was a place to blow off steam in situations where the few hours’ oblivion found at the bottom of a few bottles of hooch wouldn’t help. 

 

Not that he was an alcoholic, or that he had a sweet, even temper, either.  He got angry all the time on the deck, when his men made stupid mistakes, when the pilots bent his birds because they were showboating or being careless, when he had to do shoddy work because there weren’t any good replacement parts anymore.  But on the deck, there was always some object to hurl his anger at.  He could always yell at his men, or toss a remark just snide enough to get the point across to an officer but not snide enough to piss off Lee or the Old Man, or throw a busted part extra forcefully into the scrap pile.

 

The problem with him and Sharon was that there was really nothing in particular he could be mad _at_.  It wasn’t Sharon so much as it was everything—what Sharon would call their “relationship,” he supposed.

 

“Frak, how do you yell at a ‘relationship’?” Tyrol muttered sarcastically as he dug through the locker where they stored the boxing equipment.  

 

Of course, it would’ve been easier to be mad at Sharon, since she was an actual target, one that would react.  But the wide-eyed kid in the infirmary with the huge, bloody patch on her face, the girl who looked so frail and thin in her big, floppy hospital gown—Tyrol knew there was no relief to be found in trying to make her break even further than she already was broken.

 

Tyrol struggled with his wraps.  He didn’t have much practice at putting them on, and it was a lot harder to do them on himself than on somebody else.  He’d gotten them to work on his own the last time he’d been down to the gym, though, after Socinus had gotten his ass tossed in hack protecting him and he and Sharon had fought. 

 

The time before that, Helo had been down there to help him.  It had been about five months before the attacks, after he and Sharon had broken up for the first time.  They’d gotten back together a couple weeks later, though, and Tyrol didn’t even remember what the fight had been about now.    ****

Helo had been the perfect blend of supportive but silent that day.

 

“Don’t see you in here very often,” Helo had said.

 

“Women,” Tyrol had said curtly.

 

“Ah.”  Helo had nodded and then dropped the subject.  He put Tyrol’s wraps on him and then slid mitts on his own hands, saying no more than an occasional grunt or word or two of encouragement.

 

Even so, Tyrol could tell from the look on Helo’s face that Helo had been hopeful that day, no matter how much he had tried to hide it.  If it really was over, Tyrol wouldn’t have begrudged his friend a shot with Sharon.  He thought the whole no hooking up with your friend’s ex rule was stupid, not to mention pretty impractical in a dating pool as small as a battlestar.

 

Tyrol hit the bag with a solid right hook, then a left uppercut.  This time, Tyrol knew it was over.  The gods had a sick sense of humor, Tyrol thought ruefully as he pounded his fists into the swinging bag.  He’d never said it, but Helo had always been ready to pick up the pieces if Tyrol broke Sharon’s heart.  Helo was good at that sort of thing, comforting people.  Now Sharon was shattered, body and soul, and Helo was dead—maybe his death even kick-started Sharon’s downward spiral, since that was about the time she started acting so differently.  If it was, maybe that meant she had feelings for Helo all along.  Maybe not, but either way, it was better than the alternative reasons Tyrol could think of for her strange behavior.  ****

Tyrol punctuated the last solid punch with a howl, full of rage at nothing and everything. ****

~~**~~**~~

 

 

For some reason, it hadn’t struck him when he’d seen Hera in the CIC with Baltar and the Six, but when he saw Helo step off the Raptor with the little girl in one arm and helping Athena down with his other hand, Tyrol realized he’d almost been hoping that Boomer would climb out of the hatch after them with an explanation of how it had all been a horrible mistake.  That was also the moment he knew Boomer was truly dead.

 

Helo set Hera down.  The grass was only a little shorter than she was, and she immediately started running through it, pausing only long enough to occasionally yank a few blades up out of the ground and toss them away again in glee.  Athena caught her in her arms, and the two of them fell down together and rolled on the ground, giddy and laughing in the sun and the breeze for the first time in Hera’s life.

 

Helo must have noticed Tyrol observing this little tableau, because he was approaching Tyrol’s perch on the hill, leaning heavily on his long walking stick.  Tyrol really wished he wouldn’t.  He hated that Helo had forgiven him for Boomer and the Raptor, though Tyrol did take some consolation in the fact that Athena never would.  Tyrol took a deep breath and braced himself.  As badly as things had ended in general, Tyrol wasn’t going to let things end on a bad note between himself and Helo.  Even if he was a sickeningly optimistic schmuck, Helo deserved better than that.****

 “Hey Chief,” greeted Helo.

 

“It’s not ‘Chief’ anymore, Karl,” said Tyrol.  “Hasn’t been for a long time.”

 

“Of course it is,” said Helo with a small smile.  “You’ll always be ‘Chief.’  It’s just who you are.”

 

“Kind of like how you’ll always be a self-righteous ass?”  Both men grinned.  Tyrol felt a little guilty about how good it felt.

 

A sharp peal of laughter made both Tyrol and Helo turn their faces toward where Athena and Hera were playing in the grass.  Hera picked a flower and put it behind her mother’s ear. 

 

“It’s a pretty sight, isn’t it?” said Helo, not taking his eyes off his wife and daughter.  “I have to admit, there were a lot of times I thought I’d never see it.”  Tyrol knew Helo wasn’t intentionally alluding to Tyrol’s role in creating one of those horrible times, but it hung over them like a thundercloud anyway.  ****

“It was Boomer who saved her,” Helo said straightforwardly, as always.  “Maybe I’m doing more harm than good in telling you that, because I don’t know—I can’t even begin to imagine how you felt…how the two of you ended, but it needs to be told.  Somebody should know that she came around at the end.  She deserves that much.”****

Tyrol stared at the ground, wide-eyed, for a long time, hoping he knew why she’d changed her mind but not really believing it. 

 

“Was she in a lot of pain, at the end?” Tyrol tried to speak without emotion, even though he knew it hardly mattered in front of Helo.  “Or was it quick, however the Cylons got her?  She—she didn’t suffer, right?”

 

Helo pressed his lips together and breathed out his nose, which Tyrol knew meant he was about to tell a truth that wouldn’t do anyone any good.

 

“Athena shot her.” 

 

The words made Tyrol feel physically sick.  He hadn’t thought he could feel any worse, after what he’d seen of Tory and what he’d done to her, but he ruefully admitted to himself that he’d been very wrong. 

 

“I’m sorry, Chief, but we just couldn’t trust her.  Not after all the times she’d switched sides before.”

 

Of course Helo had done more harm than good.  Tyrol could have spent the rest of his days spinning redemption stories for her, hero stories, love stories, but Helo had to put a definitive end to Boomer’s story with all the pathos and irony of one of those ancient Aquarian tragedies Tyrol had always hated so much in school.

**   
**

Not that secrets and lies were any better than Helo’s truths.  Especially the lie of love, that excuse so many people had used to dole out death and misery.  That’s where it all went back to, eventually: why Cally killed Boomer, why Tory killed Cally, why Boomer tortured Athena, why Athena killed Boomer. 

 

Boomer.  Boomer had been ripped apart because she didn’t have any real life, because all the good things in her life had been imaginary.  Tyrol’s problem was that he’d had too many lives.  If for nothing else, Tyrol envied Helo for having only one life where he had what he most wanted, and no more.****

 “Don’t worry about it, Karl.  You did the right thing in telling me,” Tyrol finally said.  He looked Helo in the eye because he couldn’t watch Hera and Athena anymore.  “My Raptor’s waiting on the other side of that hill over there.  You have a good life.”

 

Helo nodded and clenched his jaw.  Tyrol saw what was coming, and he was regretting his brief lapse into sentimentality already.  Helo pulled Tyrol into a hug, and Tyrol grimaced but patted Helo on the back.  Mercifully, the embrace was short, and Helo didn’t try to offer any words of optimistic benediction when Tyrol immediately turned on his heel and stalked off toward the horizon.

 

That first evening on his chilly, lonely island, Tyrol struggled to build a fire on the beach for several hours before kicking his tinder and kindling in frustration and giving up.  It was summer, so he wouldn’t freeze to death without one; it would merely make for a cold, miserable night.  He walked along the cliff face that butted up against the beach until he found an alcove big enough for him to fit inside.  He pressed his back against the still sun-warmed rock face and pulled his jacket around himself more tightly.****

He didn’t even have to close his eyes to make the dark ocean fade away into a cold, sunny, early spring day outside their house.  The pounding surf became the sound of the little stream that ran along the edge of their lot.  Sharon’s crocuses and ghost flowers were in bloom along the path to the front door.  The hinges on the door creaked; he’d promised he’d oil them, but he’d forgotten.  The table in the kitchen was set for dinner, a wine bottle on the counter.  Dionne hadn’t cleaned up the mess she’d made in the living room with her watercolor kit, but the painting she’d left out to dry was a beautiful picture of the beach they sometimes visited on holidays.  The stairs creaked, too, and Sharon had asked him more than once to fix them as well.  Fading red light from the sunset shone through the big west window in their bedroom.

 

He came to the door to Dionne’s room.  His hand hesitated on the doorknob for a long time, but he knew he couldn’t face the empty room, not again.  He pressed his hand one last time to Dionne’s ceramic handprint hanging on her door, wondering at how small and delicate her fingers were, like her mother’s, but proud that they were deft and skilled, like her father’s, even if Dionne was an artist and he was just a mechanic.  ****

It didn’t take much to get the fire going.  There was plenty of gasoline in the garage, and Tyrol had taken the lighter out of the still-child-proofed drawer before he’d even started pouring the gasoline.  After the first spark, the laws of nature took care of the rest.

 

Tyrol sat on the far riverbank of the stream, watching flames lick the windows and smoke billow from the cracks in the panes and the doorjambs.

 

And on the beach, Tyrol felt the warmth of a fire.

 

 


End file.
